


His Almost Lover

by Writcraft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Grieving John, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Rough Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John grieves for Sherlock, dreams offering his only escape but no real satisfaction.  When Sherlock finally confronts him, alive and well, John has to learn to love all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Almost Lover

“You need to learn to notice the living,” John’s therapist tells him. Like it’s that bloody easy. Her voice is slow and measured, her office full of books. He wonders if she’s ever seen war or if she’s just read about what it might be like. He wonders if that’s enough to do the job. Can you help the battle weary if you’ve only seen the inside of an ivory tower? John doesn’t know. He doesn’t know much anymore.

“I notice the living.” Christ. His voice is a hollow, broken thing. It’s an unfamiliar sound in the still room, jagged like broken glass. Cold. Hard.

“Do you?” She hums and makes some notes. Perhaps she does know, after all. Perhaps she knows more than John does. All he wants to do some days is sleep, because the world always looks so different in his dreams. Brighter, sometimes. Warm and alive. “You need to get yourself out and about a bit. Meet new people.”

“I know,” he snaps. Is she his mother or his therapist? Next she’ll be giving him leaflets for speed dating or telling him about local ballroom classes where he can meet a nice, young girl. He clears his throat and sips his water. His hand’s shaking. He looks out of the window and thinks he sees something moving in the shadows. A trick of the light.

“You can’t keep waiting for the dead to appear on every corner. You know that, of course.”

“I know,” he repeats. He’s like a recorded message, on a loop. I know, I understand, yes, yes, okay, _fine_. He uses that one a lot. He doesn’t know what might happen if he lets the words he wants to come out see the light of day. He doesn’t think he even knows what a sentence like that would sound like. He could write a book on the muddle in his mind. Maybe he should.

“I’m not suggesting you forget him, but…” It sounds as though that’s exactly what she’s suggesting and it makes John bristle.

He takes it back. She doesn’t know a thing, and books alone won’t give people the background they need. Not when it comes to Sherlock. Because nobody forgets Sherlock. 

_Breathe. Swim through the waves. Head above the surface. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Wipe away the tears and taste the salt. Forget if it’s sea or heartache._

_Tread water._

_Reach for him._

_Pray he answers._

John can’t forget Sherlock, because meeting him was like seeing the sky for the first time. He stepped outside and looked up during that first, crazy week and he wondered why he’d never noticed how impossibly blue the sky could be. He’d been walking around all that time and he’d missed so much before Sherlock.

John breathes, the crash of his memories pushing him back beneath the surface. He reaches out a hand and breathes in a lungful of air as slim fingers pull him to the surface, kicking, spluttering and gasping for breath. _That’s_ how meeting Sherlock feels. Like you’ve been breathing in water all that time and you’re finally getting to taste the wind between your lips. 

“John?” His therapist interrupts his stream of consciousness and John looks up, blinking.

“Yes. I’m here.” He doesn’t tell her where he was. He knows she wouldn’t understand.

She moves away from the memories which cloud his vision and onto coping techniques for negotiating a life without him. 

Without Sherlock.

John turns back to the window and watches the shadows move between the trees.

*

Living isn’t living without him. It’s going through the motions. It’s pulling on clean boxers from a sensibly folded pile in the drawer. They’re hard from too much detergent and it makes his skin itch. Should have bought the non-bio, he supposes.

Next, it’s the socks. They’re dull black and there must be nearly thirty pairs of them, neatly rolled into wool balls. They irritate John, lined up with military precision. They remind him of how empty his life is these days, how the daytime stretches into night and the weeks into months. He barely notices the passing of the minutes, the hours, the days. When did he become so lost? 

_Please. One more miracle._

John shuts the drawer and tugs on his shoes. This is what living is, after all. It’s getting dressed with numb fingers fumbling against too-small buttons and the memory of somebody’s whisper in your ear. It’s fat, heavy tears rolling down cheeks which are cool in the fresh morning air. It’s what normal people do, isn’t it? They function. 

John splashes cold water on his cheeks until his nose is red. He prods at the bags under his eyes and wonders when he started to get so old. He pulls on a jacket and goes out to buy some milk and PG Tips from Tesco. The streets are too busy and the people too cheerful. When he returns, the flat is quiet like death. He puts the milk in the fridge and tries not to wince as the light hits his eyes. Everything is hard and cold, these days. Fluorescent lighting makes his head burn and he shuts the door until the kettle whistles and he can make some sugary tea.

In the afternoon he decides to go to the cinema and watch a film. Not one with bombs, or ghosts. Some things are still too raw. He always picks something to make him laugh, or at least something that’s supposed to. The laughter around him sounds canned, forced. Like one of those American television programmes. He imagines someone at the front of the cinema pressing a button or holding up a sign. 

_Laugh_.

John isn’t sure he remembers how. He forces a smile when he notices a couple of teenage girls laughing at something on the screen. His lips are cracked and dry and the effort of smiling hurts. When one of the girls throws popcorn in his direction he stands and leaves. The film wasn’t that good anyway.

At night he takes off his socks and puts them in the laundry basket and notices how they leave marks on his calves, light pink circles which travel around the circumference of his leg. It aches, again. He rubs it with his hand, kneading the muscles and fighting back a wince. 

He pulls his sheets up to his chin and stares at the ceiling. There were thirty-seven cracks at last count. The small spider is back again, spinning its web in the corner of the ceiling. John doesn’t like spiders but this one’s small enough and high up enough that he can’t be bothered to do anything about it. Besides, he feels warm for the first time in ages. The chill leaves his feet and he scrunches his toes under the duvet, letting the heavy weight of sleep press against him.

“Night, Sherlock,” he says. He does, sometimes. Part of him hopes Sherlock can still hear. He’d do it even when Sherlock was still alive, when he began to recognise that tug in his belly and the warmth flooding through his body whenever Sherlock stood too close.

 _Too late, too late, too late_.

Now he finally thinks he’s brave enough to say it, there’s only the spiders and dust around to listen. John wonders when he became another unanswered voice in the night. He wonders how many people in the city of London lie awake and study the cracks in the ceiling, longing for things they don’t have – things they can never have. 

Seeing Sherlock in his dreams is marginally better than not seeing him at all. John rubs his hand over his face, unable to believe he’s at the point of hoping for ritual hauntings instead of more long, lonely nights with just the unruly wind and the patter of rain against the window panes. 

He closes his eyes and hopes it’s one of those nights.

One of the ones where Sherlock _lives_.

*

It doesn’t happen every night. In the darkest moments it’s a few times a week and on other occasions John can go for a month or so without seeing him. The nights are never constant; the days never the same. Just like Sherlock did when he was living, he manages to take John by surprise in death. He infiltrates John’s dreams with determined purpose. He mouths words which look like _remember me_ or, sometimes, _forget_. He’s angry on those nights, furious and warm. His eyes darken and flare with determination and he pushes back against John, as if he’s foolish for still being so completely consumed by Sherlock Holmes.

They act differently in those dreams. There’s nothing unspoken between them. Even when the air is thick with silence, John knows. He hears it in the cadence of Sherlock’s breath and the hot puffs of air against his ear. He feels it in the agonising torture of Sherlock’s cool fingers against his belly, travelling down. When Sherlock says his name, it strips him bare.

_Please, Sherlock. Please, please, please. Be alive. Just. Don’t be dead._

The way the _John_ falls from Sherlock’s lips sounds like loss and, sometimes, it sounds like hope. Sherlock’s voice is edged with grief and the heat in his eyes doesn’t ever seem to find its way to his skin. He’s ghostly and marble-cold. Sometimes he bleeds and John tries to fix him but only manages to break him further apart.

Tonight, Sherlock’s as alive as ever he’s been. He’s laughing at something in the kitchen, drinking tea and studying a mass of papers which cover every inch of empty space.

“About time,” he mutters. “How on earth you can waste time sleeping when there’s work to be done…”

John checks his watch. Fond annoyance settles in his stomach, warm and familiar. “It’s seven in the morning. It’s hardly a lie in.”

“Is it?” Sherlock pushes a hand through his hair, his eyes flicking from page to page. “I’ve been up since four.” 

Sherlock’s always waiting up for John in these dreams. Waiting for John to come back from sleep, just like John waits for Sherlock every single day. John puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and studies the papers. There are lots of angles and figures.

“Anything interesting?”

“I’m trying to work out how someone can throw themselves off a building and still survive.” Sherlock fixes dark eyes on John and John’s mouth goes dry. “It shouldn’t be possible, should it?”

“You tell me.” John’s voice is rough, his throat constricted. “Isn’t it?”

“I think it might be. There’s thirteen different ways I think someone might be able to do it.” Sherlock gathers the papers and stands, his cheeks flushed with the warmth of life and vigour. John wants to press his hand to Sherlock’s chest and feel if his heart’s still beating, _alive, alive, alive_.

“Why the sudden interest?” John tries to keep his voice light, his fingers sliding over the place on Sherlock’s chest where his heart beats the strongest. He can feel the steady thrum beneath his finger tips and it gives him hope.

“Research. It might be useful.” Sherlock steps closer and it’s familiar and not. It is, after all, the Sherlock and John of John’s dreams. It’s the couple that are confident enough to press their lips together and tell each other how very important they are to one another, without side-long glances and reading the subtext. It’s the Sherlock who believes that, maybe, love might exist. It’s the John who long since stopped fighting and decided to just let life take him in unexpected directions. It shouldn’t work, but it does.

Sherlock cups his hand to John’s cheek and there’s a tremble in it. His fingers are long, slim and smooth. His thumb strokes John’s face and his eyes pierce John’s soul. John can practically hear the wheels turning in Sherlock’s mind. He wonders if he has toothpaste on the corner of his mouth as that particular spot currently has Sherlock fixated, brow furrowed. He wonders if Sherlock knows that means he wants to be kissed.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker and his lips quirk into the barest hint of a smile. He sighs, his exhale filling the air between them. He leans down just a touch and slants his head so that his lips meet John’s. It’s a peaceful good morning, but as with everything Sherlock does there’s an intensity behind it. 

“You cleaned your teeth,” Sherlock murmurs against John’s lips. There’s a gentle tease because of course Sherlock knows what it means. He slides his fingers into John’s hair and John knows he’ll find it damp from the careful shower John took before coming to see Sherlock. Of course, Sherlock will know what that means too.

“Yes.” John sighs into the kiss, his body already reacting to Sherlock. Sherlock licks slowly into John’s mouth, a hum of contentment escaping them both. He tastes warm, like tea. He nudges John back until he connects with a wall, and a second hand joins the first, gripping into John’s hair and tugging him deeper into the kiss.

John responds with vigour as his cock swells in his pyjamas and warmth spreads through his veins like honey. The heightened arousal makes his skin tingle and every rub and push of Sherlock’s body against his own sends sparks through him. Sherlock does this to him, every single time. It almost feels real, when Sherlock’s hand slides down to cup his cock through the thin cotton of his pyjama bottoms. That too, was intentional. Easy access. Sherlock smiles against John’s lips as if he knows. Of course he does.

“People usually dress after showering.”

“Not always.” Heat rises in John’s cheeks and he pulls back from the kiss. Sherlock looks dishevelled and his lips are kiss-bitten and damp. God, he looks good. “I thought I might go back to bed.”

“I did wonder.” Sherlock’s eyebrow arches and he pushes John against the wall again, crowding his space. He takes John’s hand at the wrist and presses it over his head, rocking into him. Sherlock is thick and hard, his body hot against John’s. “Do you want to forget?” His kisses trace a line along John’s neck which makes his breathing rough and ragged.

“No. God, no.” John’s words leave him in a gasp. “I want to _remember_.”

Sherlock kisses him properly then, the coiled spring snapping open and every last bit of restraint gone. John knows they won’t make it back to bed, he knows they don’t have time. The watery light of morning is already making its way through the cracks in the curtains and the kitchen begins to flicker and fade.

They kiss each other with reckless abandon, all teeth and tongue and roaming hands. John can’t get enough of Sherlock, tugging open his shirt and opening his buttons with fumbling fingers. He unbuckles Sherlock’s belt and pushes his hand inside, finding him hard and wanting. Oh yes, that’s good. He never thought he would feel so excited by the hard length of another man’s cock in his hand. He didn’t understand, at first, the dreams he could have about Sherlock. He hadn’t expected this, of all things. 

Sherlock’s fingers dip beneath the waistband of John’s pyjamas and his hand circles John’s cock. Their kisses are fierce and urgent now, breathing rough and damp in one another’s mouths. John can’t get enough of kissing Sherlock. He can’t get enough of how Sherlock is when he loses himself to the intimacy of physical pleasure. Making Sherlock come undone is one of John’s favourite experiences – looking into his eyes as they flare and his brain stops working for one glorious moment as pleasure explodes behind his gaze and his warm seed coats John’s hand. He stutters forward, pushing hard into John’s fist and he grips John’s arse. Sherlock’s filthy. Filthier than usual. He kneads the cheeks of John’s arse, pulling him open and exposing him to the cool air of the room and the cold plaster beneath his naked backside.

“Next time, I’d very much like to…” Sherlock pushes forward again, eyes closing as he hisses with pleasure. John knows what he’s imagining because John’s imagining it too. His mind floods with images of Sherlock pressing him down and fucking into him with determined purpose. Sherlock learns quickly and he knows things about the human anatomy which can even take John by surprise. He’s constantly surprised by how needy he gets with the Sherlock of his dreams – how much he wants to be defiled, taken, used and then wrapped up in warm body heat for an endless, heart-stopping moment and one more hard kiss. He tells Sherlock once. The Sherlock of the shadows moving in the darkness, while he palms his cock through his jeans. He’s drunk and he has to gulp back tears as he tries to imagine lips on skin, fingertips touching and bodies sliding together slick with perspiration.

“Next time, it’s nearly-”

“Morning.” Sherlock finishes with a groan, biting down on the spot where John’s neck meets his shoulder and coming with a shudder. The full length of his body trembles against John and he breathes, hot and damp in John’s ear. John comes shortly after with a cry, Sherlock’s name falling from his lips with aching reverence.

“There are thirteen different ways someone could survive,” John says, eventually. His breathing is even and he can finally stand again without needing the wall to keep him upright. “Thirteen different ways someone could fall and survive.”

“Yes.” Sherlock kisses him again and because Sherlock doesn’t believe in such things, John knows it’s a dream when he finishes, “Thirteen’s always been my lucky number.”

It’s morning, and the kitchen shivers until John’s in the middle of the desert and the sound of bombs falling in the distance bring him to his knees.

*

When John wakes, his cheeks are tracked with tears and his pyjamas are sticky and damp like a child. He curls in on himself, shivering in the sudden cold of the room as the reality of his situation comes flooding back.

There’s no satisfaction to be had, even in the best of his dreams. They all end the same way, with John waking alone and cold in his grief and shame. He wonders if he’ll ever be satisfied again. When he wants the kisses of a dead man, he’s not sure he’ll ever find the completion he craves or fill the hole of too many words unspoken.

It’s usually around four in the morning when John thinks he hears Sherlock’s voice. With a sigh, he gets up knowing he won’t be able to sleep for several hours. He has a quick shower, changing into his trousers and a warm jumper. He brushes his teeth, looking at the way his face is cut deep with the lines of age – the marks of grief which the loss of Sherlock etched into his skin. He touches the corner of his mouth where a little toothpaste leaves its mark and remembers the sleep-warm kisses and the blush on Sherlock’s cheeks. He closes his eyes and swallows around the lump in his throat.

He’s ready to leave the flat after half an hour sitting in the kitchen and recalling every moment of his dream. _Thirteen_. He wracks his brain for clues and tries to think like Sherlock. He would pray, if it was something he still believed in.

When he steps out onto the streets it’s dark and the air is fresh with newly fallen rain. London’s sleeping, for the most part. Even the West End bars have emptied happy punters onto the rain-damp streets and only a few lone cars and late night revellers cross John’s path. He never knows where he’s going. Sometimes he finds himself by the grave, tracing his fingers over cold, damp marble. Sometimes he ends up in one of the cafes used by cabbies. He chokes down a fatty bacon sandwich and a creamy cup of tea with lots of sugar. London’s lonely at this time. As lonely as he is. Big, cold and empty. Full of unrealised potential.

John stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks with his head down. By six, London will be wide awake again and John will still be sleepwalking through his day. He has to look down, studying the yellow and red parking lines and trying not to step on the cracks in the pavement. If he looks up he’s not sure he could ever pull his eyes from the London rooftops. Even now, he still sees sprawled limbs on concrete, blood on broken pavement and wonders what it might feel like to fly.

He stops at the spot. He stretches his arms out, and looks at the roof. He closes his eyes and lets the wind batter his body. Sherlock looked like he was flying for a moment. Arms stretched out, coat billowing like a cape from a super hero comic book. John had prayed for it. Like a child sitting up and waiting for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, his body had ached with it. _Fly_. Sherlock could do anything he turned his mind to, after all. Would any new ability have surprised John? Probably not. Sherlock wasn’t made for broken bones and a cold death on the hard streets of the city.

“John.”

It still sounds like loss. Broken in half, rough around the edges. It sounds like grief. Like the two years lost to numb desperation. One shaky syllable, caught on the wind.

“Sherlock,” John whispers. 

Then, “I’m sorry.” A hand on his shoulder. Warm and weighty. “Please understand…”

John turns, his body shaking. Dark eyes meet his own and he allows his hand to travel up – to touch. There’s the steady beat of a heart beneath his fingers and the tremor of a pulse thudding in Sherlock’s neck. 

“Am I still dreaming?”

“No. I can explain.” Sherlock smiles, and he makes a joke John can’t even hear. There’s a dull roar in his ears and he pushes Sherlock, hard. Dead men don’t stumble. Dead men don’t bleed. He punches him in the nose just to be sure and Sherlock falls back with an _oof_ , hands shooting to his face. “Come on, John. There’s no need-”

“Do you know, what you’ve done?” Perhaps he’s mad, fighting with a ghost. 

“I don’t suppose you have a handkerchief?” Sherlock evades the question, head tipped back with a curse. “I’ve been looking for you. Why weren’t you at the flat?”

Because it nearly killed me to be there when you weren’t, John wants to say. Instead he shoves Sherlock again until his falls untidily onto the pavement, staring up at John and blinking as if he’s _surprised_. 

“I…cried for you. I _grieved_ for you.” John swallows, his words breaking into pieces as he tries to choke out his words. “I tried to save you. In my dreams. Over and over. I thought I…I thought I was…”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow and the thunder claps. His cheeks are flushed pink and it’s as if they’ve been kissing in the kitchen. The Sherlock of John’s dreams understands love. He understands the pain of loss and he’s just as terrified of losing John as John is of losing him.

John swallows thickly.

He’s spent so many nights with that Sherlock, he’s not sure he knows the man before him at all. Not anymore. He doesn’t know if he can be with Sherlock living and not want lazy Sunday kisses in the kitchen. Confusion muddles his sleep-deprived mind and his body almost shakes with anger and exhaustion.

The heavens open and John turns his back to walk home until walking isn’t enough and he has to run and run until his breath comes in dry heaves and his lungs start to burn.

He crawls into bed, damp with rain and shivering from something other than the cold. 

He wonders if Sherlock’s still there, soaking in the rain and bleeding on the pavement.

He shuts his eyes and tries to pretend he doesn’t care.

*

It’s two weeks before John finds himself in Baker Street, watching Sherlock crouched over a toxic looking liquid bubbling over a Bunsen burner.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I’ve been asking for weeks.” Sherlock doesn’t look up, cursing when the liquid begins to flame and dumping the contents in the sink. The flat carries the light scent of cigarette smoke, brandy and what might be noxious gas. John wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock was experimenting with something likely to kill them both. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You didn’t reply.” He flicks a towel towards the smoking sink and curses again, his back to John and his shoulders rigid.

“I’ve been ignoring you. Obviously.” John clenches his jaw and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Mrs Hudson cried when she saw me.” He’s not sure why he said that.

“Did she?” Sherlock turns, a small smile on his lips. “She screamed when she saw me.”

“I’ll bet,” John mutters. Despite himself he can’t help but snort with laughter. He’s so bloody angry, but Sherlock alive is…well…he’s not sure what it is, but it’s something he’s wanted for such a long time. “You can’t just keep surprising people who think you’re dead. You’ll give someone a heart attack.”

“Yes, I had considered that.” Sherlock frowns. “Or find myself on the receiving end of a punch.”

“Yes, well.” John’s cheeks heat. “You deserved that.”

Sherlock studies John, the silence almost quiet enough to hear his mind turning. “I suppose I did.” 

John takes a step closer. “You’ll tell me how you did it? Why you didn’t tell me?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pulls off his gloves and washes his hands, before moving closer to John until they’re close enough that John can almost feel Sherlock’s breath on his skin. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know. It was never about…not trusting you. It was about protecting you.”

John snorts, thinking of those numb, lost years. “Some protection. Stumbling through each day just trying to make it through to the evening.”

“Better than being dead.” Sherlock’s lips curve again, his eyes dark. “Take it from a man who knows.”

John nods, uncertain. “Some days I wished for it.”

“I see.” Sherlock’s lips tighten into a thin line. He looks at John as if he can see right through him and perhaps he can. “Will you move back in?”

A jolt goes through John and he shakes his head. “No, I can’t.”

“Can’t?” Sherlock turns from John and busies himself with the kettle. “I see.”

“No.” John’s words catch in his throat and he shakes his head. “I don’t think you do.”

“Then tell me.” Sherlock leans on the counter, his shoulders hunched and tense.

“Do I really need to?” John tries to keep the tremble from his voice.

“Oh, John.” Sherlock turns, finally. He breathes out John’s name like a curse or perhaps, like a prayer. 

“Don’t.” John’s words choke him and he clenches his hands into fists. “Don’t make me say it.”

Sherlock’s so close now, his breath so warm. The space around them fills with breathing and the steady beat of two hearts, perfectly in synch. John’s breath catches because for all of his dreams he’s never done this before. With a man. With Sherlock. He has no idea where real Sherlock begins and fantasy Sherlock ends. He has no idea if Sherlock wants to take John’s grief away with hard kisses and assured hands, stroking into the strands of his hair and tugging – pulling – touching him until he falls apart. He has no idea if Sherlock has any interest in chasing John’s concerns away with tender moments by the fire, drinking brandy and talking about the latest case. 

“I can’t pretend to understand matters of the heart,” Sherlock says. The words drive a knife through John’s heart and his breath heaves out of his lungs, jagged and desperate. He’s swimming again. Back in the water, head beneath the surface. He’s reaching for the light. Stretching his hand up, up, up until it tangles in soft dark curls and he’s searching for something to resuscitate him – to bring him back to life. “I can’t pretend to understand them,” Sherlock repeats. His lips are close, so close and John can feel the way Sherlock’s heart skips in his chest and the way his body responds to their proximity. Then it’s Sherlock moving closer and his words are still coming, breathless, rough-edged things which fill John with hope. “But perhaps you can tell me, John Watson. Is this the way it feels?”

John’s answer is ripped from him with a gasp as their lips finally connect. It’s harder than John expected, there’s no tentative tease or gentle tasting of lips and tongue. Sherlock is hard and lithe against John, his fingers gripping onto his hips and their bodies slamming together as John finds himself pushed against the wall, while Sherlock kisses him with desperate urgency. Their lips search and find, their words spilling between them and secrets unearthed in the silence of the room which fills with breath and low murmurs of yes, _yes_. Their mouths open to one another, their hands seeking out skin to connect with. Sherlock keeps John steady against the wall, his body undulating and grinding into him. He tugs at John’s hair and yanks him close, the sound leaving his lips almost a growl. It’s fierce, demanding and it’s everything. It leaves John shaking and desperate, his cock hard as he pushes close to Sherlock and wraps his arms around him.

It's different to the dreams. There’s no morning light to wake them, there’s no moment of remembering twisted limbs and the burgundy rich pools of Sherlock’s blood on the London streets. There’s no fear of tomorrow but it’s just as urgent as it’s ever been. John tries to take control of the kiss, still angry with Sherlock and determined he’s likely the more experienced of the two. He’s surprised at Sherlock for even instigating this with fierce determination. There’s an edge to Sherlock’s kisses which is both possessive and protective. There’s force but there’s kindness there too, the barest hints of it when Sherlock brings his fingers to trace the lines on John’s cheeks that had seemed so old and careworn just days before. Now Sherlock’s fingers map each one as if he’s trying to read John like ancient manuscript, building stories around every line and curve of his features.

The dizzying kisses only stop when there’s a knock on the door and Mrs Hudson asks if they want any tea.

Sherlock pulls back, his hair askew and his eyes wild. He shakes his head at John, it’s _no, no, no_ and John tries to find the words when the door opens. Lestrade’s behind Mrs Hudson and Molly too. They’re excited, eager and it’s all John can do to bite back snappish words.

“It is not…the time for tea.” Sherlock’s voice is tight, a little gruffer than usual.

“There’s always time for tea. How are you, Sherlock?” Lestrade makes to embrace Sherlock who stumbles backwards and reaches for a cigarette with a tremor in his hand.

“Not dead, which is a start.”

“A bloody good one, eh, Watson?” Lestrade claps John on the shoulder and he nods, unable to tear his eyes from Sherlock. He imagines a lazy kiss which tastes like brandy and cigarette smoke and he swallows.

“Absolutely. Yes. Good start.” John’s voice catches and Sherlock glances at him, raking a hand through his hair as if to compose himself. His eyes flick to John’s neck and he gives him a small nod, almost imperceptible.

“I’ll just…use the bathroom.” John disappears, largely to compose himself and splash cold water on his face. He straightens out his hair and his shirt. He tries to pull the collar over a red blemish on his neck and forces back the memory of Sherlock’s lips against his neck, sucking. He shivers and returns to the living room, occupying the seat on the sofa next to Sherlock.

“Now, then. Who’s for cake?” Mrs Hudson smiles and John nods, casting a forced smile in her direction. It doesn’t hurt anymore to pull his lips upwards, to laugh along with the others, but it still feels tense and unnatural. It’s only when nobody else is looking that John risks a glance at Sherlock. Their eyes meet and the look in Sherlock’s take John’s breath away. His long fingers are cool against John’s skin, sliding momentarily over his hand as his voice takes on a low, smooth tone. “More tea, Doctor?”

John laughs, the sound bursting from him and filling the room. He laughs in a way he hasn’t laughed for such a long time, his smile easy and natural now and no longer forced. “Why not?”

“Hmm.” Sherlock murmurs under his breath. “As it appears we don’t have much choice in the matter. I suppose there are worse things than tea and cake.”

“Yes,” John says. The ache of grief assaults him again and the memory of his cold, lonely completion after another one of his dreams. “Much worse.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flare and his gaze takes in the full length of John’s body before he breathes out through gritted teeth. “Tea it is, then.”

They drink tea and eat cake. John lets the hot liquid and the sweet, sugary fruit warm his body from head to toe. When Sherlock shifts on the sofa and his thigh presses insistently against John’s, John wonders if that might be the warmest moment of all.

*

“You’ll be moving back in then, Doctor Watson?” Mrs Hudson is the last to leave, hovering in the doorway. John casts a glance at Sherlock who raises his eyes heavenward.

“I expect he probably will if you allow him a moment of peace. We have a lot of things to discuss, I’m sure you can imagine.” Sherlock makes a shooing motion with his hand and John resists the urge to smile. Really, Sherlock’s patience has been tested more than usual.

“Oh, of course.” Mrs Hudson winks and Sherlock lets out a growl, pointedly standing by the door.

“ _Mrs_ Hudson, if you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” She clasps her hands to her chest and laughs. “You boys.” 

The door finally closes and John looks at it, his stomach twisting with nervous excitement. He shouldn’t have had a third portion of cake. “I suppose the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Oh, please. Mrs Hudson assumed we were involved from the moment you set foot in this flat. She just thinks we’re picking up from where we left off.”

“Involved?” John raises his eyebrows in Sherlock’s direction. “Is that what we are?”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “I’m not particularly inclined towards the term _boyfriend_ and I have precious little interest in marriage. Frankly, I find the whole institution abhorrent.”

John stares at Sherlock. “One kiss and he’s talking about marriage.”

Sherlock’s cheeks heat and he looks away, glaring. “I’m not accustomed to these kind of arrangements. If there’s a protocol I’m unfamiliar with, you’re going to have to explain it.”

“No protocol.” John reaches for Sherlock, feeling a little like he’s swimming again. Breathe in. Breathe out. Stroke, stroke, stroke. The waves crashing over him, salt on his lips. “I’m perfectly content just to be Sherlock and John for now. Holmes and Watson. If people want to talk, we’ll let them.”

He stretches his hand a little more and Sherlock grasps it.

There it is again. That lungful of air, the bursting to the surface.

Sherlock’s frown disappears, his eyes light up and John wonders if he feels it too.

*

The next kiss is more languid, unhurried and they make it to the bedroom.

John strips, unabashed by the scars and marks on his body. He’s fairly certain Sherlock isn’t particularly swayed by such things and the heat in Sherlock’s gaze convinces him of that. Besides, he’s had plenty of relationships and he’s not about to let himself start worrying unduly about things which have never troubled him in the past. The time without Sherlock has aged him and forced him to look at things a little differently. He’s not sure he can feel anything at the moment other than the tug in his belly and the warm flush of arousal which spreads through his body. He doesn’t want to. 

Sherlock slides out of his clothes, his body lithe and trim. His cock is half hard and he slides his fingers over John’s thighs, his hips and up along the side of his torso. He’s reading every inch of John’s body, taking his time over blemishes and marked skin which form part of John’s story. It’s almost painfully good to have those warm fingertips brushing against his skin and John can’t stop his body responding with eager readiness.

“Have you done this before?” John asks. You never know with Sherlock, particularly when it comes to sex and – dare he say it – love.

“Of course.” Sherlock looks surprised, eyes flicking from a part of John’s shoulder to meet his gaze. “Several times, by way of experiment.”

“Of course.” John snorts and shakes his head. “Science.”

“What else?” Sherlock looks confused, as if John’s being slow on the uptake. 

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Perhaps because you like someone. Love them, even.”

Sherlock pulls a face as if the thought is unappealing. “No. Not for those reasons. This…” Sherlock presses his hand to his heart. “Is new to me. As you know.”

“Yes.” John shifts closer to Sherlock, the heat from his body reminding him again how _alive_ Sherlock is. “You do this a lot, do you?” The familiar jealousy coils in his stomach and John tries to keep his voice light.

“Not for a long time. Just enough to understand the…mechanics of it all.” Sherlock focuses on John’s left ear as if it’s particularly fascinating to him. “I believe I was not very good. The first time.”

John studies Sherlock. “How old were you?”

“Eighteen, perhaps. I can’t remember. Can we talk about something else?” Sherlock’s expression shutters closed and John strokes his fingers over Sherlock’s torso, until he releases a breath with a ragged exhale. “Or better yet, not talk at all. Those previous times were…nothing. They don’t matter to me.”

“Then they don’t matter to me.” John clears his throat. “Besides, nobody’s good at it the first time. It took me years to work out what to do. Where to put my hands.”

“Years?” Sherlock relaxes visibly, his eyebrows raised. He shifts closer and runs his fingers down John’s spine, sending a shiver through the length of John’s body. “Are there many places hands can go?”

John closes his eyes and finds himself swaying a little into Sherlock, pressing closer. “You’d have to tell me. In many ways, I’m not…experienced.”

Sherlock’s eyes open quickly and he stares. “You’ve had plenty of girlfriends. Granted, you’re not the most debonair-”

“Thank you.” John cuts Sherlock off with a roll of his eyes, pulling back a little so he can look at him properly. “Girlfriends, Sherlock. I’ve had plenty of girlfriends. No men. Never with other men.”

“Ah.” Sherlock’s lips twitch and he brushes his fingers through John’s hair, studying his ear with interest. “I thought perhaps that Major of yours or one of those soldiers.”

“No.” John decides not to mention he’s been doing this in his dreams with Sherlock rather a lot over the last couple of years. It doesn’t seem like the time. “No one else.”

“I haven’t done this for some time myself.” Sherlock mouths a damp line along John’s neck, his murmured words hot and muffled against John’s skin. “We’re going to have to learn one another.”

The thought makes John groan with pleasure. He kisses Sherlock then, deciding there’s been quite enough talking for one evening. They fit together in a way John didn’t quite expect. Sherlock can certainly kiss and he knows where to run his fingers over John’s bare skin to elicit the most pleasure. They stretch out and Sherlock begins to kiss a path down John’s body, taking his time to pause at his chest and his nipples, taking each one on turn between his teeth. As he moves lower, his lips whisper _I’m sorry_ against John’s skin, his kisses reinforcing it. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

“You are,” John says, throat tight, “The best and…bravest man I’ve ever known.”

Sherlock looks up, eyes dark. His cheeks flush a light pink and his mouth opens as if he wants to say something. Instead he plants a careful kiss on John’s hip and clutches onto him, holding him steady as John tries to buck up with a hint of pleasure.

“Forgive me?” Sherlock’s voice is rough and the unspoken _please_ hangs between them.

“Of course.” John swallows around the lump in his throat, stroking a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “Of course I forgive you.”

There’s a sigh from Sherlock, warm against John’s skin. Then Sherlock runs his tongue over the length of John’s shaft, sliding his lips over the head and pressing down. It’s all John can do not to cry out as the sinfully delicious sensations flood through his body, his pleasure crashing over him in waves. The tight, damp heat of Sherlock’s mouth is so welcome after lonely nights in the shadows of his too-small flat with only the shadows and ghosts to keep him company. The satisfaction of being caressed back by warm hands and teased and pleasured by a warm mouth is unspeakably good.

John slides a hand into Sherlock’s hair and presses into his mouth with a groan of pleasure. With slick lips, Sherlock slides over John with a steady pace as if he doesn’t want John to come too quickly. As he feels the press of a slick finger against his entrance, John lets out a low hiss of pleasure. Sherlock doesn’t press in but continues to rub, slow circles with light pressure but without pushing in.

“Where on earth did you get the…”

“I have needs, even if I rarely succumb to the solitary pleasures of the flesh.” Sherlock slides off John and John’s just about to say there’s nothing bloody wrong with a bit of a wank here and there, thank you very much, when Sherlock’s finger pushes and slides inside John’s body.

“Oh, Christ.”

“I believe this…” Sherlock’s lips curve as if he’s pleased with himself, smug bastard that he is and he slides back with his finger lightly crooked. “This is rather good.”

And it is. John’s a doctor and he’s not one to be squeamish about anal sex or unaware of the potential for pleasure but he’s never been one for toys or doing acrobatics when he’s on his own. His sex with women has always erred on the side of the vanilla and he never fancied broaching the subject in case he scared people off. Now with Sherlock’s long finger – fingers, as he pushes a second inside – stretching and sliding into John’s body, he wonders why on earth it’s taken him so long.

“Trust you to know every trick in the book,” John mutters. It really is typical that Sherlock would be good at this too and a little unexpected – despite the confident Sherlock of his dreams. “Bloody typical.” 

Sherlock looks puzzled again, then a light seems to dawn and he slides his fingers back out of John before pushing in slowly again. “There are no book. No tricks. I have simply spent more often than I would care to admit studying _you_.” Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on John and he brushes his lips to John’s nipple which makes him bite his lip. 

“This, for example.” Sherlock does it again, giving his fingers a light twist which makes John arch up from the bed with a groan of pleasure. “ _This_ is written all over your face. Did you know you flush from your chest to your cheeks, when you’re aroused? When you like what I’m doing you bite your bottom lip or you shift to the left. Your fingers clench the sheets. Your leg hitches. Your breath catches. You have to close your eyes sometimes when it’s too much and when I did this…” Sherlock twists his fingers again and his smile is broad. “I do believe you said _please_.”

The pleasure of Sherlock’s fingers and the way he returns to John’s cock, tonguing at the slit and then sliding his mouth around John once more is almost enough. It’s almost enough for John to come with a shout and to fall boneless onto the bed, congratulating Sherlock on a job well done and letting him be smug about it. With a groan of frustration, he nudges Sherlock away, turning them until Sherlock’s on his back.

“Very good.” John gives Sherlock a grin and then runs his tongue along the line of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock shivers beneath him. “Now let’s see how _you_ react.”

“Oh.” Sherlock sounds surprised as if the thought of reciprocal pleasure hadn’t perhaps occurred to him. John makes his way down Sherlock’s body, having been on the receiving end of enough blow jobs to at least know something about the success or otherwise of certain techniques. He takes a steadying breath and runs his tongue along Sherlock’s length, over the tip and back again. He wants to _see_ Sherlock for this. He wants to read him as he’s read John, noting the way Sherlock’s breathing gets rough and ragged and the way small groans of pleasure escape his lips. There’s a deep flush in Sherlock’s pale cheeks – darker than John has seen before – and he takes great pleasure in sending more heat through Sherlock’s body as he finally slides damp lips over Sherlock’s cock.

The resulting low cry of pleasure is definitely worth it, Sherlock bucking into John’s mouth slightly. Sherlock’s hands make their way into John’s hair and John’s surprised how he likes this, being guided by rough hands which tug at his hair just as Sherlock always used to do in John’s dreams. The likes the taste of Sherlock – the saltiness on his tongue and the feeling of his prick sliding between John’s lips. He loves the scent of him, soapy, smoky and masculine and he secures his hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock, taking him deeper. He knows he can do better but from the sounds Sherlock’s making and the way he’s almost writhing beneath John and tugging at his hair, John is pretty sure it’s a job well done.

“Stop. I can’t…”

“Don’t you want to?” John slides off momentarily and Sherlock shakes his head, his words leaving him in a pant.

“I want you. I want _you_.”

John’s heart skips in his chest and he nods, rolling onto his back and waiting for Sherlock to settle over him, tugging him down into a kiss.

“You’re aware you already have me?”

Sherlock answers with a smile against John’s lips, urging his mouth open and kissing him, hot, filthy and delicious. He tastes of smoke and fruit cake, of tea and of the promise of tomorrow.

When Sherlock slides on a condom and pushes into him, it takes John’s breath away. Sherlock has been inside him for such a long time. In his head, occupying the empty space beside him on the streets. He’s been able to feel Sherlock in his bones, meet him in his dreams and at the top of every too-tall London building he’s seen shadows waiting to fly from the roof. The sensation of having Sherlock inside him again, like this – alive – is overwhelming and so, so good. God, it’s better than a hundred of his best dreams.

He pushes his hand between them both, sliding it over his cock as Sherlock pushes into him at a different angle. The force and the change in position sends shocks through John’s body and he groans, arching towards Sherlock. He tries not to close his eyes, keeping focused on Sherlock whose lips curve into a small smile. He looks more dishevelled than John’s seen him for a long time, his torso damp with a light sheen of sweat. John slides his fingers down Sherlock’s chest which makes him arch and groan, moving deeper into John. With a murmur of something that sounds like John’s name, Sherlock slides his hand over John’s thigh and up, gripping him with his other hand and setting up a firm, quick rhythm as his breath leaves him in shallow huffs.

“You…” Sherlock’s pupils are blown wide with arousal, his gaze dark and fierce. His sentence leaves him with a half-formed shout as he comes with John’s names on his lips. John brings himself to climax shortly after, keeping Sherlock close and then pulling him down into a damp, sticky kind of kiss. He lets Sherlock roll off him and dispose of the condom, before Sherlock moves onto his back and presses his hand over his heart – like it hurts.

“Alright there?” John tips his head to the side when he’s able to speak without sounding as if he’s just received the best fucking of his life. It wouldn’t do to pay Sherlock too many compliments. He’s smug enough as it is, without John adding sex to the list of things Sherlock’s utterly brilliant at. “Okay?”

“Thinking.” Sherlock’s brow furrows and he gazes at the ceiling. John wonders if he’s counting the cracks, like John used to do at home. He wonders what’s keeping Sherlock so quiet, so pensive. 

“People sometimes…talk…afterwards.” Sometimes they even cuddle but John thinks Sherlock might have some objections to that word and he doesn’t want to spoil the moment.

“How?” Sherlock looks at John, his eyes lazy with sleep and his cheeks flushed pink. “How on earth do people _talk_? I’m barely capable of it and I’m brilliant.”

John lets out a huff of laughter. He presses his ear to Sherlock’s chest, listening to the beat, beat, beat of his heart. “Perhaps you need a coffee or a nap. You have been dead for quite a while, after all.”

“For such a long time,” Sherlock agrees. His fingers slide through John’s hair and his voice is low and sleep-heavy. “I’ve been dead for…such a long time.”

“Now you’re out of the water.” John lets pure pleasure and satisfaction wash over his body, soothing his aching bones. The dull pain in his leg fades and everything is just that bed, rumpled with Sherlock, cologne and perspiration. He lets the sensations lap over him and can almost feel the warmth of the sun on his back, no longer battling against the tide or swimming against a current and fifty foot waves which would crash relentlessly over him. “Breathing, again.”

“Am I?” Sherlock laughs, which takes the edge from his words.

“Aren’t you?” John lifts his head to look at Sherlock, who seems bemused.

“I’m not sure.” Sherlock presses his hand to his chest again and he wipes his hand over his eyes. “Does it usually hurt?”

“It shouldn’t.” John frowns, sitting up properly and making sure Sherlock looks at him properly. “Why should it, when we’re both here? I’m not going anywhere.”

“No.” Sherlock looks away. “But I did. Did you feel like this, before?”

John shrugs, because that’s the question he’s asked himself a thousand times over. “Before the fall? Yes.”

Sherlock faces John and he looks uncertain, his face pale. “Then how on earth can you forgive me?”

John swallows and he presses a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, breathing in the scent of him. “Because that’s what people do. When they love one another. If it’s worth it.”

“Do we love one another?” Sherlock pauses, the silence heavy between them.

“Don’t we?” John rolls onto his back and begins to count the cracks in the ceiling. There’s less here. Less than thirty-seven. More than twelve. He loses count at fifteen because Sherlock’s distracting him with urgent kisses along his arm, his torso and against the curve of his neck where his pulse beats the strongest.

He thinks Sherlock whispers something against his skin, but John can’t catch it. “I’m less tired now.” Sherlock kisses John again, taking his hand and moving it to his back. “Do you want me?”

John runs his fingers down Sherlock’s back, his breath catching. “Don’t I already have you?”

Sherlock shivers as John’s fingertips dance across the bumps of Sherlock’s spine, questing lower. “I suppose you do.”

John catches the rest of Sherlock’s words in a kiss which stretches into another and then another.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever have enough of you.” Sherlock pulls back, finally. He studies John, his face serious. “I’m not sure how it’s ever enough.”

“Yes,” John says because he knows. 

He kisses Sherlock again and they sink back into the sheets while the night gathers around them.

*

In the morning, the sun streams through the window.

John wakes in Baker Street to the sound of breaking china and a muttered curse from the kitchen.

He smiles and rolls onto the other side of the bed, where the sheets are still crumpled.

He presses his cheek to the pillow and sighs, feeling its warmth.

_~Fin~_


End file.
